Gray Skies and Scarlet Sand
by KnightOfNevermore
Summary: He hears men sobbing for their mothers and brothers. He tastes blood in the air and gunpowder on the sand. He feels grit in his clothes and blood on his sides. He lives for today and fights for tomorrow, here in this hell of Omaha. WWII, D-Day, Alfred.


**A/N: **I well... to put it simply, I have a rabid fascination with both WWII and the Holocaust. My interest in history, both WWII and not, is what led me to become so enthralled with the Hetalia fandom. This particular piece is derived from D-Day and is wholly inspired by Steven Spielberg's incredible movie, Saving Private Ryan. Spielberg did something I believe no other director did in a war movie, he made it all brutally realistic and so terrifying for the people watching it, that it was hard to call such a depressing and horrifying movie entertainment. However, it is a masterpiece, which led me to write this, which is a brief story from Alfred's point of view, in the storming of the beaches of Normandy. This is a type of style that is new of me, but it came quickly and naturally and that is the effect that I wanted, so overall I am pleased. I would like to quick make note of an idea I used in this, that nations cannot be killed by human methods, so just a brief warning there. So without further ado, enjoy and analyze my story!

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He's shaking. He's arms twitching and his minds spacing and oh god, oh god, oh god he has near been so afraid.

He can't see, he can't smell, and all he can hear is the RATA TAT TAT of the German guns and the screams of the men dying around him. All he can smell is iron and salt, salt iron, filling his sense and sweeping him off his feet till he can't think straight.

The only thing that goes through his mind is run, run, run.

He had never felt human before.

Until this time, this place, this beach, Omaha.

He takes a bullet to the arm, raw searing shoot up his shoulder and scream rips through his lips.

The man next to shouts at him, something about getting down but he can't, can't, can't he has to RUN.

The panicked rushed thoughts cease when everything goes silent and the pain is sharp and quick but it's over before he knows and he's dead.

Three minutes he counts, in his little world of silence. It is not the first time he has died, but this is his favorite. His thoughts fit back together and weave their intricate patterns that were lost so quickly with the opening the transport's door and the falling of the brothers and friends before him, splattering his face with blood and filling nose with the dead scent iron. But now he can rest, but he knows it wont be fore long so he takes it in while he can, and oddly enough he finds himself wondering what it looks like back home, are the water to stained with blood? The sand as cold and unwelcoming as the blood soaked surface he uses as a pillow? Is the sky the same dull and emotional gray that hangs overhead, as if just to contrast the brilliant scarlet decorating the land beneath it? He doesn't know, and before he can wonder it more in his pool of silence, everything is rushing back and he is alive again, and he has to get up, get up, or he'll never secure the beaches.

A deafening roar and screeching yells meet his ears and flames meet his eyes. Men screaming and flailing, smashing into each other, the remnants of a flamethrower enveloping the men it was made to aid.

He stumbles to his feet his hands briefly brushing the closing hole in his forehead, his hair matted with blood, not his own he realizes, but the man lying next to him, a bullet hole driven straight into his oh so, green, green eyes. Immediately he think Arthur, Arthur, Arthur; and he prays to someone, something, anything, that his father, brother, friend and something else he didn't quite want to figure out is on beach far better than his own.

That is his final thought as he surges forward again, mind blank of communication, his feet only carrying him, his arms only carrying his life in their grip, his gun, his protection, his defense, his life, heavy and hard against his sea-water uniform. He crashes onto the sand of the embankment, eyes searching wildly to enemy that must be there, because his men keep on dropping and his mind keeps on screaming and the world is just so red, red, red.

He sees men screaming for their mothers and he hears men sobbing for their brothers.

He tastes blood on the air and gunpowder in the sand.

He feels grit in his clothes and blood on his sides.

He thinks of his men and the people that they die for here in his hell of Omaha beach.

He thinks of their goal, their peace, their freedom, that must be gained, must be achieved, because the world is relying on them and they must, must, must carry through with their duty.

Their duty and life and love for being heroes and meant that would give their lives for total strangers, as if just to bring freedom to those who have had theirs taken away.

He thinks of the man, no boy, shivering and sobbing whispers prayers to himself on their crowed boat, putting some much faith into his god, only to received and bullet to the brain and an apologetic letter to his mother.

He sees, he hears, he tastes, he feels, he thinks, and he acts.

They will win.

They will take these beaches.

They will defeat the oppressors, the abusers, the tyrants, and the murders that have ravaged the world.

His world.

Their world.

They will defeat them, because if they can't, no one can.

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A/N2: I hope I did not disappoint, and if I did, or did not, please leave me a review and share your thoughts. Thank you for reading and (hopefully) reviewing.


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